What will you remember when you look back in 20 years and recall how you left your home and school and went to stay with a foreign family, with nothing but your mobile phone and internet access to stay in contact with all those whom you hold dear?

Will you remember the tears shed at the airport by your terrified mother, or how your father paced the living room with a furrowed brow, fists clenched as he reconciled himself with the fact that you were leaving for a full ten days? Will you remember the looks of unspoken sympathy that you elicited from your teachers when you told them where you were going and with whom? Will the sight of your younger brother or sister, draped around your legs in an effort to stop you setting off flash to mind as you cast your thoughts back?

Or maybe the howling of the family pet, as it too realised that you were departing, maybe noticing and understanding in somme mysterious canine fashion the implications of the carefully weighted suitcase or knapsack upon your slender shoulder, will echo in your mind as you revisit these moments.

So you set off, a combination of Artful Dodger, Billy Bunter and India Jones, carefully packaged in light but layered clothing, dragging your suitcase behind you, mindful of the Smoked Salmon lurking between the designer jeans, next to your favourite hoodie, a thoughtful gift as long as it doesn't leak. Everyone likes smoked salmon, but no one wants to smell of it.

You weren't the last to arrive. Some had arrived but certainly not all. There's the man himself. Wearing his broad black brimmer. That was so you'd not lose him in a crowd. He was mindful of that wasn't he? The hat was the totem for the group and it instilled a sense of belonging. As long as you could see the hat, you felt safe. In a strange way, maybe it was the hat that protected you throughout the trip. It was rumoured that the hat had voodoo qualities, although this was never proven as far as you can remember.

Passport, boarding pass, wallet. Onto the plane. Out over the ocean. Quick check to make sure that the life jacket is under the seat where the lady said it was. Maybe you even tried it on? Did you tug to inflate? Did you give a little tentative tweet on the whistle? On to Paris. Watch out you thought, the Irish are coming to town. But of course you didn't articulate that, as it sounds so stupid. It's all about being cool. You weren't cool though were you? Nor were you not cool. You were somewhere in between. It's instinctive you see. A person always knows just how cool they are relative to everyone else in a given group. It's where you are on the ladder that counts.

Big city remember. Nasty airport, populated by pedants with PhDs in unhelpfulness. Following that hat, you arrived at the bus. What followed was a scramble for the back seat. You didn't get it though, but you were near enough to the back as to make no difference. The back of the bus is the very top of the ladder isn't it? It's a kind of metaphor for success. For instance, right now our economy is sitting on the driver's lap.

Hotel and high jinx was the next memory. Did you behave yourself, or did you make it your mission to creep and lurk around darkened hotel corridors in the vain hope of outwitting the hat? Were you the bane of serious minded German tourists who intended to do every site in Paris, fortified with teutonic slumber? Were you the nightmare for travelling businessmen who's only crime was to check in the same night as yourself? If so, shame on you.

We roamed Paris. Ha! I just like the sound of that. You may have remarked on the Eiffel Tower, how so many of the industrious, indigenous pigeons are missing parts of their claws / talons / legs / feet. Undeterred, they too roam around, scavenging what they can. Maybe their missing limbs elicits sympathy from the hardened tourists, who try to cheer up these Quazimodo birds with pieces of croissant and beakfuls of chilled chablis.

Was it the train next? Off to Rennes. Clickity Clack, train on the track,ain't no goin' back

Host family soonyou ain't over the moonabout leaving, you're grieving, you're harried, and worried,You ain't in no hurryto meet your corres,It's stress at its best.

The teachers can't helpthey're delighted to knowthat you're off for the night,And off they will go safe to the hotel,All happy and well, Leavin' you in this hell.

Ha!

So sink or swim.

It got tense didn't it? As we approached Rennes station you could feel your heart beating overtime. Laughter became nervous and you laughed too loudly at the all too familiar silliness born of anxiety.

Out on the platform they were all waiting. The French all dressed in black. Black was the new everything that year clearly. It was like a Marlon Manson chapter meeting and the tension was palpable. They huddled furtively watching you and judging you, and you responded, although maybe not doing it the justice it deserved; you were tired from all that travel weren't you?

With the solemnity of an arch-deacon blessing the crusaders on the eve of battle, M. Février called your name and off you went, heart in your mouth, into the maw of the unknown. What was that like? Lips dry, throat sore, breathing unsteady? But he took your suitcase didn't he? The car was warm when you sat into it, and thankfully you didn't have far to go.